


(please) don't say i'm going alone

by liquidsky



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Camping, First Time, Important Life Decisions, Light Pain Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Billy bumps their legs together, knees brushing, so Steve opens his eyes to glance at him. "Watcha thinking about?" Billy asks him, an amused, easy-going sound to his voice. Steve eyes his grey tank top, already stained with sweat, and says, "Do you think we'll ever get out of here?"
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 29
Kudos: 197





	(please) don't say i'm going alone

**Author's Note:**

> it's summer where i'm from, so i'm sticking with the vibe.

It's not that Steve doesn't know how the story goes.

If anything, the problem is that he knows too well – Billy'll show up, later rather than sooner, his eyes droopy, pupils wide, hair bouncy despite the sizzling heat that's caging them in like a furnace as the brunt of summer edges closer in Hawkins. Steve, less because he can't help it and more because he just wants to, will take one look at Billy and feel all of the resolve he pretends to have crumble – he'll reach out, like he always does, hands moving with a will of their own to settle over Billy's skin. Anywhere he can find, really. So, the bulge of Billy's bicep, the bonier part of his knee caps, the coarse hair on the inside of his thighs. Steve's never wanted to touch anyone like he wants to touch Billy, half-impulse, half-choice, an obstinate feeling curling easy and warm around him whenever Billy cocks his head, smirks a little too cruelly. Whenever he doesn't, too; Billy's not whoever he used to be, way back when they still had basketball to care about, dumb high school hierarchies that probably mean jackshit out there in the real world. Outside of Hawkins. If they ever make it out. Nowadays, back from the dead and awkwardly repetent about it, Billy's a little less hard around the edges, though he's still not _soft._ Still just enough of an asshole for Steve to be allowed to find it amusing – he's kinder to Max, though, to Lucas and Dustin too. Steve kind of likes it. 

It's easier to sidestep how exhausted he is – of everything at once, and of nothing in particular – when Billy's around. He'll say something mean, and slightly off-putting, and Steve will grin because he wants to, because maybe he's missed being a little cruel, a little reckless. Not about the same things – he cares too much now, about the people he'd relentlessly make fun of once upon a time. It's equal parts mortifying, and. Something else, _heartwarming,_ maybe, if the words themselves didn't make him want to scoff. He does, almost silently, shutting his eyes for a brief second until he hears the sound of footsteps – Billy's familiar sauntering, really – and the creak of the steps as he sits down next to Steve. 

He bumps their legs together, knees brushing, so Steve opens his eyes to glance at him. "Watcha thinking about?" Billy asks him, an amused, easy-going sound to his voice. Steve eyes his grey tank top, already stained with sweat, and says, "Do you think we'll ever get out of here?" 

It comes out of nowhere, sort of; Steve's probably had more to drink than he should've, but he's just. He's felt kind of hollow, lately, sunken in on himself. "Of Gregg's house?" Billy says, "Just say the word, princess," and Steve knows he knows that's not what he meant, so he waits instead of answering, instead of scowling like he might have when they didn't know each other as well as they do now. Finally, Billy tells him, "I hope so. Why d'you ask?"

"Just–tired, I guess." 

"It's summer, Harrington," Billy leans back on his elbows, eyebrows raised, "What do you have to be tired of?" He says, and Steve knows this, too, that Billy is aware that Steve has to work just as much as Billy does if he doesn't want to be relegated to _corporative zombie_ all through summer vacation. He doesn't know if they get to call it a vacation, in all fairness; school is over, finally – and terrifyingly – so maybe this is just _life._ He makes a face in spite of himself, so Billy clucks his tongue and sits up so he can pull a joint out of his pocket and hand it to Steve, lighter and all. "You look like you need it." 

"Thanks," Steve says, because he's polite, and he likes it when Billy does stuff for him. This isn't that, exactly, but it's close enough that he feels slightly electric anyway. "What would you do? Out there?" 

Billy looks amused again, "In the real world?" he humors Steve, taking a hit when it's offered to him and exhaling a cloud of smoke that looks sort of hypnotic as it glides through the air. "Guess I'd want to go to college, or something." 

"You would?" Steve blinks at him, cocking his head. He could see that, maybe, Billy in UCLA colors, getting drunk in shitty parties just like this one. He'd be inside, though, smirk in place, the center of attention. The mental image of Billy gripping some faceless girl's thighs and lifting her up against a nondescript fantasy wall of whatever nondescript fantasy house he's picturing makes him flush, so he says, "Huh. Not as weird as I imagined."

Billy bumps their legs together again, "Yeah?"

"I mean, it's not hard to picture."

"California," Billy says, but he curls his tongue around it like he knows Steve's in on it, "That's where I'd go. Surfing on the weekends, getting high at the beach. Maybe I'd get a dog."

Steve laughs, startled by the thought of Billy and a _dog,_ so Billy rolls his eyes at him, "What? You a cat person?" and Steve answers, "'m not an _anything_ person," because he never had to take care of anything that wasn't his own damn self before he'd accidentally adopted a bunch of pre-teens. He doesn't know that he'd want a dog, but he pictures Billy having one, can see how that might be good for him – something to take care of, that would care about him in return, easy as anything. 

"I could be into dogs," Steve says, a realization, ducking his head when Billy's eyes go all knowing, "What?" 

"Nothing." Billy says, and this time he blows the smoke right on Steve's face. 

\+ 

Billy shows up outside of Steve's work fifteen minutes before the end of his shift, and he stands there against the hot brick walls with his head tipped back, golden and distracting, so eventually Robin just shoves Steve out of the way, saying, "Just go, I'll kill you then myself if I have to witness another second of this."

To which Steve responds, "of what?" blinking at her, kind of off-sorts, and Robin just stares at him until he runs a hand through his hair and tries again, "Uh, we aren't–"

"Whatever you say, Steve," she says, not unkindly, and Steve sort of. He doesn't want to contradict her; Billy's not there to hear it anyway, so Steve figures it's harmless to lean into the assumption, and gives her a smooch on the cheek before clocking out early. 

Billy turns as Steve walks through the door, smiling easily at him. The bridge of his nose slightly more sun-kissed than the rest of him, painted a faint red that Steve finds himself wishing he could press his finger to. He shakes his head, just once, and Billy says, "How do you feel about a road trip?" 

"Uh–" Steve starts, because he just clocked out of work and he's still wearing a shitty uniform, he doesn't have any bags packed, he still has to work on Monday, and he doesn't–" _How?_ " 

Billy moves away from the wall so they can walk side by side out of the parking lot, silent for a while until he says, "Not today. In the future."

"When you say the future–"

"–Next week." 

"Huh," Steve says, blinking. He doesn't have to work, necessarily, and he's managed to save enough money that a road trip could be a thing that happens, but he's still sort of. Thrown for a loop, or whatever, so he stops walking and stares at Billy until he stops, too, "Where do you want to go?" He asks then, even though he knows he'd go anywhere, at this point, and not even just because he's tired of Hawkins. He and Billy, well. He'd go anywhere regardless. 

Billy sighs, "I'm not sure yet," and he shuffles around a bit, shoves his hands on his pockets and looks sort of sad behind the eyes, "I don't know that I can afford to take that much time off either, but, uh–"

"We should go camping." Steve interrupts him, says it on a whim and only then realizes that it's a _good_ idea. "Away from here, somewhere else, but close enough that we can be back by Monday," and Billy's nodding, a grin tugging obviously at the corners of his mouth, and Steve feels a little like he's floating, especially when Billy smacks a hand down his shoulder and says, "I know just the place." 

He drags Steve to sit by the curb close to his place while he packs – Steve guesses Billy's father's not home, and won't be anytime soon, so he sprawls back under the sun and throws an arm over his eyes. He feels funny, a little bit, a kind of warmth that's got nothing to do with the weather making his skin prickle. The thought of going away just the two of them should sound weirder than it does, and Steve's still got enough presence of mind to recognize that life in itself already feels sort of like that; the only two people in focus while everyone else fades to the background, blurred out of existence by the way Billy's presence fills any room up enough that the heat of him keeps spilling sideways and sticking to Steve like caramel, catching him in a familiar balmy haze that's a little beyond anything else he's ever felt. By the time Billy turns the corner and walks up to him—with a well-worn, dirty duffel bag in hand—Steve's half-convinced that the actuality of being _alone_ with Billy can't be much different than just _being_ with him. 

Billy takes one look at him and laughs, "You awake there, princess?"

Steve gives him the finger, smirking a little, and takes the hand Billy offers him to pull himself up. He straightens his clothes, patting his ass so he won't walk around with grass stuck to his person, "Do you have a tent?" he asks, because Billy doesn't seem to be carrying any actual camping equipment. 

He watches Billy shrug, raise his eyebrows in a way that means he feels daring and hasn't yet learned that Steve's not quite up to denying him anything these days, "Nope, but you do," he says, shifting forward to adjust the collar of Steve's polo, "Figured we could share." 

+

Billy launches himself on Steve's bed with the air of someone who's been there enough times for it to be second nature, even though he hasn't, and it probably isn't. Steve lets him do it, smiling at him briefly before ambling into his closet and throwing an empty bag back at Billy. He catches it easily, and Steve sees him look inside, the curiously back at Steve, "What are the essentials here?" 

"No clue," Steve tells him, because he's never gone camping before in his life – he and Tommy were always the kind of people who pussy out of being alone in the woods, or alone anywhere, really, so he's never really gotten the chance. So he asks, "What did you bring?" And stands there with his hips cocked and his arms crossed over his chest while Billy rattles off a list of shit he's shoved into his own bag, some of it useful, some of it slightly mystifying. 

By the time he's finished, Steve's started packing his own essentials, flying up and down the stairs so he can grab snacks, and more snacks, and fresh towels, pajamas, endless pairs of underwear that Billy raises both eyebrows at. "D'you plan on shitting your pants or something?" He asks, and Steve whacks a pair of boxers his way, flushing when Billy unfolds them and gives them a little shake, saying "Cute print, Harrington." 

Putting their shit in the car takes two separate trips, with Billy grumbling away while Steve tries his best to make things look somewhat organized. He doesn't quite manage it, but it's alright, anyway, none of it looks like it's about to burst out of the bag and/or out of the car, so Steve figures they're safe and sprawls comfortably on Billy's passenger seat, resting his face on the warm window glass until Billy flicks him on the leg impatiently, "You're not falling asleep," he says, so Steve tries his best not to. 

+

He doesn't know where they're going, so he's left to stare out the window while Billy figures out the way; the sun's long since set, but the night around them is strangely light anyway, the full moon following them easily, matching the slide of the Camaro over the sprawling road ahead. Steve never really liked driving at night – he'd always been bothered by the darkness, and how it shaped things into beasts crueler than he'd thought reality could ever conjure, trees turning into monsters, the wind a faint, gloomy whisper that made goosebumps rise on his skin. It changed after the mindflayer. For the worse, probably, and he wonders how Billy feels about it, but when he looks at him all he sees is the comfortable way he sits, the relaxed slope of his shoulders and how his fingers are lightly tapping the wheel, perfectly in sync with the tape they've been listening to on repeat. His profile looks slightly otherworldly under the moonlight gleam. Nose an elegant line, golden skin glowing faintly; he's smiling, Steve notices, just a small upward curve to the corner of his lips, and Steve feels his body melt against the seat, too. They're safe together – not because they can't be reached, but because they have been, and they won anyway. He smiles at the trees as they speed past them, less afraid now than he's ever felt before, and when he glances back at Billy after a while it's to find that Billy's already looking at him. 

+

It's nearing midnight when Billy finally takes a left turn into a dirt road, driving a few more meters until he pulls to a stop. Steve looks around – to their right there's a trail leading somewhere, past the cluster of trees and bushes surrounding them. Billy gets out of the car with a small smile, so Steve figures he knows what he's doing and decides not to question it, following his lead – struggling upright with their too-heavy bags and the unpitched tent in hand – up to a clearing. It's beautiful, moonlit and open, the faint sound of animals traveling through the air, but somehow it makes Steve feel more serene than anxious. Ahead of them, sky reflected across the surface of an immense lake, endless still water; Steve turns to stare at Billy, strangely breathless. "Alright?" Billy asks him, and Steve nods, clears his throat and shakes his hands a little, saying, "Where are we setting up camp?" 

Billy says, "There," and Steve follows him, puts their things down carefully. They set up in silence, stepping around each other comfortably until their tent is a little wonky but still salvageable, and Billy crawls in in all fours to organize the inside while Steve tries to light up a fire. He's pretty sure he succeeds, but then Billy comes back out and scoffs at Steve's attempts, elbowing him out of the way and taking care of it himself. Steve lets him, watching with an amused smile as he manages a better, bigger fire; the flames lick the side of his face in a way that makes him look all the more appealing, and Steve comes to stand next to him, their arms brushing. 

"Wanna go for a swim?" Steve says, because he's clammy with dried sweat and the heat is starting to get to him. 

Like he didn't expect Steve to suggest that, Billy gives him a bewildered look, saying, "Figured you'd be scared of the water," and smirking when Steve scoffs. "Alright, pretty boy, why not." 

Steve shrugs off his t-shirt, regretting that it means he doesn't get to see Billy take off his. Still, when he looks up, it's a sight – tanned, shirtless Billy, hair falling over his eyes as he peers down, hands around the waistband of his shorts. For a wondrous, ridiculous second, Steve feels like he's been struck by lightning, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, and he can't glance away fast enough when Billy looks at him; he doesn't flinch, doesn't blush, instead all he does is cock his head slightly. Assessing, almost, if it wasn't for how alight his eyes are. Looking at Steve, Billy peels his shorts off, kicks them to the side. His thighs are pale – or, well, not _pale_ , but less golden than the rest of him, and he moves easily toward the water, large, confident strides that Steve follows once he's caught enough of his breath to take his own shorts off too. 

Billy keeps walking; he moves into the water seamlessly, strong arms stretched wide, and turns his body a little, to one side first, then the other, like he's warming up to it. Steve watches from the shore as Billy seems to kneel, water up to his chest just then, and he feels, again, like he's lived an entire lifetime these past months, like he's lived long enough to know he'll never see a sight as grand as this – Billy, twisting around to stare at Steve, eyebrows raised, grin knowing. Steve walks forward, balking at the cold for a second before he keeps going, and going still until he's pausing next to Billy, "How d'you know about this place?" He asks, and Billy shrugs. 

"I ran away, once," he replies, honest, "Stayed here for two days, I think, but eventually I just–Max, you know," and Steve doesn't, not really, what he knows is that Billy was here alone once, slept here alone, surrounded by near-silent and almost-darkness while creatures were lurking, and he wasn't caught. It took him getting home for evil to strike, and Steve wishes for a second that Billy had stayed here, safe under the stars, except then they wouldn't have made their clumsy way to each other. To whatever they were now. 

"What about her," Steve asks, because he doesn't know how to say anything else, is not sure he would've wished for things to be different if he had the change, and Billy shrugs at him, glancing away from him, saying, "Thought maybe he might–just, I don't know. If I wasn't there, maybe he'd–" he pauses, and Steve gets it, finally, the last puzzle piece slotting into place. Tragedy isn't something that happened to Billy that night; tragedy for him just _is_ , so Steve steps forward, into Billy's space, and he water ripples with his movements, enough that Billy looks back at him. 

"I didn't know." 

Billy shrugs, "I didn't want you to," is what he tells Steve, almost amused, like he's caught Steve red-handed, trespassing too far into his territory. 

Steve kneels down, so much so that the cold water circles his neck and he shivers, "Does he still?" 

"Nah," Billy says, "When I came back he just– _stopped,_ like he didn't want to, anymore. He's not any different, he's just. I kind of think he can feel it." 

"That you–"

Billy blinks at him, "Survived something I shouldn't have," and meets Steve halfway, leaning into him enough that Steve feels caught off-guard; his first mistake, which he should've seen coming, because the second he parts his lips Billy's moving back and splashing lake water right into Steve's mouth. 

Steve splutters, spitting water, yelling, "Fuck _off,_ I can't _believe–_ " and moving in for the kill, wet skin gliding together as he pulls Billy closer, goes for a headlock and misses by a landslide, the sound of Billy's shrill cackles filling up the air. He touches him, again and again, shoving Billy underwater, dodging his attempts at dragging Steve along. He closes his eyes and tries his best to memorize this–the last summer vacation, that isn't really a vacation at all, because he's done with school and he's got a job, but it feels important, maybe less like a last anything and more like the first second of the rest of his life. 

Billy settles down eventually, swimming away from Steve to float on his back, eyes closed, body loose. Steve doesn't swim any closer; he watches instead, treading water with his feet off the ground, gaze locked on Billy's frame. 

He's starting to get cold, he realizes distantly, and his skin is beginning to prune, but Steve stays where he is. 

\+ 

The inside of the tent is too warm – Steve welcomes it, lies on his stomach with his legs as spread as they can go before they're resting against Billy's. He turns his head to look at him; lying on his back, Billy's got one of his hands behind his head, and the other clumsily holding up a battered novel that he's been reading in sheer concentration for long enough that Steve's sort of getting worried. 

He's a comforting presence, Billy is, a blanket of heat along Steve's side, the smell of him at once musky and sweet. They brushed their teeth side by side an hour ago – before piling up together inside the tent – and Steve feels oddly changed by it. Billy Hargrove, spitting a mouthful of toothpaste into a bush and wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Comfortable; domestic, even, something Steve doesn't think anyone's seen a lot of with Billy. 

Steve's slept with people before – really _slept,_ he means, shared space with. It's always struck him as odd, people's little idiosyncrasies, their personal rituals. Tommy didn't have a lot of them, but Nancy did. A few of the girls he's slept with had them, too, a handful of seemingly random details that he's never had much of a mind to collect.

Steve wants to collect this, Billy's eyes getting progressively heavier-lidded, his boxers soft and worn thin. The blonde, wiry hairs on his bare feet. He watches the rise and fall of Billy's breathing, thinks back to the how he held his hair back when he brushed his teeth, and he's just. Overcome with the lightness he feels in his chest. Light enough he might just float away, except Billy decides it's time to stop reading, then. He dog-ears the page, and Steve tries to catch the title and fails, so he shuffles a little closer instead, hoping he's less than conspicuous. Billy doesn't seem bothered by it. He says, "Can I off turn the light?" And Steve says, "Yes," so Billy does. 

His breathing sounds loud in the dark, loud enough that he forgets to feel scared. The air in his chest rattles around like a bird in a cage, and he should be tired enough to fall right asleep, but he's stuck counting each of Billy's exhales instead. By the time Billy's breaths have evened out, Steve's feeling pretty odd himself, somewhere between awake and dreaming, feeling the warmth of Billy's bulky body seep into his bones, feeling time as it crashes past them.

He doesn't move, and in his sleep Billy inches closer to him, shuffling around until he's lying on his front and his arm is a heavy anchor across Steve's back. He inhales, breathes in and in and in, then out. Between one thought and the next, he's asleep. 

+

Steve wakes up sweaty, every inch of his exposed skin glued to Billy’s – he’s snoring softly right into Steve’s ear, and he’s too warm, ridiculously heavy as he lies dead to world and half on top of Steve. He doesn’t want to wake Billy, despite the fact that his arm has long since gone numb and his bladder tells him he’s seconds away from pissing himself. The air around them is stale, umid and overly balmy, and Steve wouldn’t wish for anything different; he shifts quietly out from under Billy, smiles when Billy grumbles. 

Splashes water on his face, gargles it and spits it back out, then he sprawls down on the grass and lies there under the sun, thinking of nothing in particular. Eventually, Billy stumbles out of their tent, bleary-eyed and a little creased, and Steve doesn’t say anything as he crouches down and ruffles through their shit with a frown until he finds three cookie packages and those shitty bottled chocolate milks that Steve’s mom keeps in the house for god knows what reason.

He throws one of them at Steve, who catches it easily, then promptly walks over and flops down next to him, “How long have you been awake for?” he asks, and Steve shrugs, taking a gulp of the thing and immediately grimacing. Billy snorts, “Not a fan?”

“It’s fucking foul,” Steve says, wiping his mouth. Billy hands him a water, grabbing Steve’s half-empty bottle instead of opening his own. Steve tries not too think too hard about it and does it anyway. “Know what else is foul?” he says, and when Billy blinks at him he grins, “Your morning breath.”

Billy rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath right into Steve’s face, and Steve keeps smiling, sort of, flopping back on the grass to look up at the sky. He’s sweating so much already, layers upon layers of it, so when Billy stands up and walks into the lake until he’s neck deep, Steve follows. 

They swim around a bit, lazily, swimming suddenly closer and away again. Steve stays afloat while Billy swims around, and neither of them try anything funny – it’s more silent then than it was last night, and Steve doesn’t want to put a dent in it, is just fine basking in the comfortable quiet that’s settled between them. He’s not thinking much of anything, mind pleasantly blank, and by the time he decides to get out of the water Billy’s already sitting down by the shore, joint in hand, exhaling round puff of smoke that Steve waves off as he gets closer, “Gimme,” he says, so Billy does. He takes a long hit, nudges Billy’s foot with his. 

He looks around for a while, but it’s likely that he’s underestimated just how distracting he finds Billy – his eyes keep sliding back to him, the sun hitting his shoulders and the arch of his back. Billy runs a hand through his hair, and Steve tracks the movement and imagines it’s his own hand instead, tangled in Billy’s hair, pulling him closer, close enough that he could see the lighter, greyish rings around his pupils. His freckled face seems like it’d be warm to the touch, and Steve wants to test it; he huffs out a breath, maybe more of a scoff, really, utter disbelief. He’s seen Billy so many times, and it’s been so long since the last time he looked without longing that he barely remembers how it feels. It’s why he breaks the silence, eventually, says, “Can I ask you a question?” and waits for Billy to answer. He says _yes_ , like it’s obvious, and Steve sighs, “How come you’ve never tried anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“With me,” Steve says, and Billy blinks at him, uncharacteristically owlish, and answers, “Wasn’t aware you wanted me to.”

Steve says, “Bullshit,” before he can help himself, and Billy narrows his eyes at him, all warning signs, and Steve pushes through anyway – he’s not good at self-preservation, “Isn’t that something you do? With guys?”

“I have, before,” Billy enunciates, and he doesn’t sound pissed, or offended, despite the squint; he just sounds curious, like Steve’s being hard on purpose, “Not in a while, though. Not here.”

Steve hums, “Me neither. I mean–not just here, I’ve never–”

“No guys on King Steve’s mile-long list of conquests?”

“Dude,” Steve says, and Billy laughs, a soft, quiet thing, and he doesn’t wait for Steve to say whatever he was going to say next. He kisses him instead, catches Steve’s mouth in his, easy at first, barely there pressure until Steve parts his lips and Billy licks his way into his mouth. Billy tastes of toothpaste, of pot, of warm smoke, and he tastes like him, specific and addicting at once, and Steve wants him so much he pushes him flat on the grass and crawls over his body, settles down heavily atop of his thighs, hands reaching up to palm his chest, to rest in the dip right above Billy’s heart. 

He wants to crawl inside him and never leave, wants to make a home for himself inside Billy – or maybe he wants it the other way around; maybe Billy needs a home more than Steve does, maybe all Steve wants is to be the place Billy will lose himself in. He wants it every possible way, so he curves his palms around Billy’s sides, breathes through his nose so he won’t have to lean away for a second.

They kiss until Steve’s lips are tingling, until his palms are prickling with the desire to reach further, to lean harder into the spark that’s brimming between them, in the sweaty slide of their chests against one another. Billy drags his lips down, bites the angles of Steve’s jaw, and Steve gasps so loudly he feels it echo, realizes it probably doesn’t – he shuts his eyes, and Billy curls a hand around each of Steve’s thighs, firm, a little harsh, draws away from him, pulls him up and up and up until Steve’s balancing himself on his knees on each side of Billy’s chest, right under the armpits. He looks half-crazy, and Steve looks down at him with his heart on his throat and every nerve on his body feeling magnetic. 

Billy lifts his head, mouths along the length of Steve’s dick through his wet boxers. He probably tastes like lake water, salty and a little gross, but Billy groans like he can’t get enough of it, pushes the flat of his tongue against the fabric, and Steve’s dick jumps, hard enough that he’s lightheaded, like he doesn’t have enough blood pumping through the rest of him, except his heart is beating too fast for that to be truth, and all he can _hear_ is the rush in his ears.

Billy pulls Steve’s dick out, and his hand is so warm against the velvety skin there that Steve shivers. 

He drags Steve even higher, then, licks around the head before sucking the tip into his mouth, and Steve groans, loudly, says, “Fuck, _Billy,_ ” in a voice that he barely recognizes as his own. It sounds all wrong, vowels too long, consonants too slick, and he’s so hot he’s feverish, and he can’t stop looking down at Billy, at the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucks, at the curl of his tongue – precise like a bullet to the head, sharp and exactly right. 

Billy tries to push Steve’s shorts down further, until he’s rubbing a finger along the crease of Steve’s ass, pushing his knuckles hard against his rim – Steve grunts, again, another breathless _Billy_ sound, and Billy shoves a dry fingertip in, sucks harder when Steve hisses through his teeth, eyes falling shut, nose scrunching up. Steve ends up rocking back and forth a little, a movement so small that Billy doesn’t choke; he adjusts, pushing his finger in deeper, and Steve feels broken apart already, scraped raw, and he knows it should be too much, and he still wants _more_. On an exhale, he tries to say Billy’s name again, hopes it comes out as an actual word instead of the loud cacophony of L sounds he thinks he hears. Billy tries curling his fingers a little, an impossible drag that Steve feels leaves him trembling, and he’s so fucking close that he’s almost embarrassed by it – his hands fall down to thread through Billy’s hair, and he honest to god _begs_ , “Please, please, please,” until he’s shooting, and Billy is swallowing convulsively around him, finger dragging _hard_ inside him. He lets Steve’s dick fall out of his mouth and flops his head down on the grass, lips fuller than usual, ridiculously red. There’s a trickle of jizz sliding past the corner of his mouth, and Steve runs his fingers over it before curling his tongue around them.

Wide-eyed, Billy pulls his finger out, too, and Steve sees him wipe it on the grass – from the corner of his eye – before he’s patting up and down Steve’s back. “I want–” Steve starts, before he realizes that he doesn’t quite have the words for everything he wants to do to Billy; he ends up sliding down his body, sucking on the thin skin of his throat, on each of his nipples – Billy says, “Just like that, _fuck_ ” in a voice that makes Steve’s stomach tighten all over again – and trails his lips down Billy’s chest, down his navel, until he’s pulling Billy’s shorts off and keeping his lips tight around the tip. He spits into his own hand, feeling a little gross at how hard he’s trying to get his hand as wet as possible, starts jerking him off in fast, short strokes while he sucks on the head of Billy’s dick with a single-minded kind of focus that he never quite had before in his life. Billy makes these broken-up noises, sharp and breathy, like he’s trying very fucking hard to make sounds and doesn’t really have the voice for it. He touches Steve’s shoulders, bucks into his grip, back arching off the grass; Steve feels the tremble in his thighs first, right before he goes stiff, and he’s caught off-guard by the taste of Billy’s come, but it doesn’t stop him from licking up as much as he can. Half of it in his mouth, the rest sliding down his fingers, a mess of thick white that he’s slightly fascinated by. Billy makes another noise, higher than the others, and Steve watches Billy watch him suck each of come-streaked fingers into his mouth, licking into the crevices, breathing so hard he feels as though he’s played a full period. 

He rests his head on Billy’s navel when he’s done – Billy pats his head, pushes his fingers into Steve’s scalp, breathes out, “Good job, princess.”

“Fuck off,” Steve tells him, but he’s smiling when he glances up, and he shivers a little, thinking about Billy’s finger inside him; picturing more of them, two or three filling him up, Billy’s smirk going a little cruel, _princess_ , and he feels himself blush, “Jesus Christ, Billy.”

Billy’s got an _I know what you’re thinking about_ look in his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He keeps his hands on Steve’s hair, pulls a little, just to be a dick. Steve _likes_ him – and he’s not startled by it, has seen it coming a mile wide. 

He knows how it goes. 

+

Billy wakes Steve up by trailing kisses down his back, hours later. They’ve eaten their way through most of the shit they brought, smoked enough that Steve’s feels all sorts of out of it. It’s the weirdest day he’s had in ages; the best one, too, all caught up in Billy, finally. He waited long enough, he thinks, so he spreads his legs easily when Billy keeps kissing him, down to the dimples on his back then up to his shoulder blades, his hands firm over Steve’s skin, almost possessive. “Want your fingers in me again,” Steve tells him, way past the point of shameless, lifting his hips up into Billy’s hands, arching his back a little. “Please?” 

He’s pleased when he turns his head to find Billy sucking three of his fingers into his mouth, shuffles a little, says, “Come on,” and hides a smile but not a shiver when Billy slaps his ass lightly and tells him, “Patience, princess.” 

He feels too warm again, and he’s sweaty, again, but the overwhelming heat just adds to it, makes him all languid and loose, like he’s still high, except he’s pretty sure he isn’t. He’s high on Billy, maybe, on the blunt tips of his fingers pushing past the resistance of Steve’s muscles – it burns, stings in a way that’s just uncomfortable enough to be sort of amazing, and he grits his teeth, mutters, “Three at a time, hot shot, come on,” and Billy scoffs quietly, but he abides – shoves all three of his fingers at once. The pain’s sharper, spit making little difference, but it’s _good_ , and Billy keeps pushing, plants his palm on the small of Steve’s back and pushes him decidedly down until his dick is pressed against the sleeping bag and he’s muffling a gasp into the crook of his elbow. He breathes wetly, and Billy shoves up, harder, and it _hurts_ , still. 

“ _Like that,_ ” Steve exhales. Billy’s not someone who ever needs to be told twice, Steve’s found, and especially not for this - he twists, and the relentless drag and pressure of all three of Billy’s almost-dry fingers inside him make his vision go spotty, breath coming quicker. He grinds down, dick getting wetter, pulsing against cool fabric. Billy huffs a laugh, moving his fingers in and out roughly, then an amused _huh_ when he goes nearly all the way out only to shove crudely back in again, and Steve _keens_ , thighs shaking, toes curling. Billy seems happy to keep on it, giving it to him hard and deep, the friction growing steadily with each back and forth movement of his fingers; dried spit, already, and Steve’s groaning non-stop, unsure he’s ever felt this good in his entire fucking life. It hurts, _so much_ , especially when Billy spreads his fingers wider, a burn that just won’t fucking stop, and Steve’s obsessed with it, so much that he sort of feels like he’s dying with it. He _knows_ with sharp, ridiculous clarity that he’s never thinking of anything else ever again, and Billy curls his fingers, bends down to suck a nasty bruise into Steve’s side, and Steve just–he freezes, for the smallest fraction of a second before he’s coming all over his sleeping bag, body trembling with his orgasm. Billy keeps fucking him through it, and even once Steve’s stopped grinding down he keeps his fingers there, a minute-long pause that Steve feels every second of, then he’s moving again, hard, hard, hard, and Steve hides his face again and moans, grossly loud, and ends up having to beg Billy to stop. 

He does, because he’s nice like that. He even maneuvers Steve around, running a hand through the jizz pooling on the bag. Steve’s breath catches as he watches Billy slick up his own palm and crawl over Steve’s body, legs on each side of Steve’s, and he’s pushing down and forward, jerking himself off, friction eased by Steve’s _come_ , and he’s watching so avidly he more or less feels like his eyes might jump out of their sockets. He licks his lips, and Billy kisses him, bites down on his lower lip until it very nearly bleeds, and Steve’s just--he’s so fucking glad he’s here, doesn’t want to be anywhere else, only ever wants to be with Billy, watching him come all over Steve’s soft, messy dick, feeling him rub them together, hissing at the pressure on his sensitive skin. 

“You alright?” Billy asks him, and Steve’s – well, he’s going to be sore, no question, but he’s also, “The best I’ve ever been,” he says, kissing the side of Billy’s face, kind of sappy and entirely fucking unashamed. 

+

“What kind of dog would you want?” Steve asks him, munching on a cookie. They’re down to the last of the five packages they brought with them, and Steve’s kind of sad that soon enough they’ll be slumming it with the ham-flavored crackers that Steve hates but packed anyway.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Billy says, “Any kind. A mutt, probably, kinda ugly, with a big snout,” he smiles, “Name him Springsteen and all.”

“Springsteen,” Steve repeats, “Alright. What else?”

“What else what?”

Steve knocks their feet together, leans closer, “Your great life, away from here,” he says, “What else happens?” and Billy furrows his brows at him, but his features smooth out after a second, and he gives Steve a small, private smile, “A small apartment,” Billy tells him, “One bad, like, really shit heating system. Bright kitchen, greasy pizza every other day. Wednesday night hockey.”

“Huh,” then, “You a Kings fan?”

“Ducks.”

“Shit,” Steve says, “ _Really?_ ” and Billy rolls his eyes, _yes, really_ , so Steve gets that apparently he doesn’t give enough of a shit to make a case for them. Fair enough, Steve thinks, because he doesn’t either. “Wednesday hockey, then. Pancakes every Sunday.”

“Not that big a fan of pancakes.”

“Waffles?”

Billy shoves a cookie into his mouth, “I could do waffles,” he says, words all mashed together, “ _Jack Frost_ every Christmas.”

“That’s fucking creepy,” Steve tells him, “But alright, and what would you study?" 

He contemplates that for a long moment, "English, maybe," Billy says, eventually, and Steve thinks that fits him well enough.

+

They flip Steve's sleeping bag upside down – it's too warm to sleep inside it, thankfully, so Steve flops down on fabric that is only slightly matted with grass, and he's comfortable, stomach full of cookies, Billy's arm heavy on his back, his minty breath pleasantly warm over Steve's face. Steve closes his eyes and shuffles closer, smiles when Billy makes space for him, tangling their legs together. 

+

The day's already obnoxiously hot by the time they start packing their shit. Because they have hours to spare, they make two trips to the car, neither of them stumbling around with too many bags in hand this time around. 

Billy cages Steve in against the Camaro, jerks him off quick and dirty until Steve's shooting all over Billy's hands, then he kisses him, slow, deep, until Steve pushes him away and drops to his knees. 

+

They go into the lake one last time before they leave, and Steve can't quite shake how it feels like he's saying goodbye. To this place, sure, but to everything that led up to it. He twists around to peer at Billy, floating on his back, and Steve doesn't feel quite as hollow anymore. Not really–not at all, actually. He thinks about it, _outside of Hawkins_ , a different place, a slightly altered version of the story he'd thought he was telling. 

Billy swims up to him, sooner rather than later, loops his arms around Steve's neck, brushes his lips over Steve's jaw. He's warm despite the cool water, and he's even more tanned now than he was when they got here—impossibly golden, ridiculously gorgeous. When Billy lets go of him and starts walking away, out of the lake, Steve pulls him back, saying, "Just a little more," and Billy stays, easily. 

Steve's never been in the ocean. It's a fact of life, one of those _small town in Indiana_ things that he never thought twice about before, but that now seems somehow inconceivable. He _wants_ – sand between his toes, salt spray on his tongue, on his hair. Billy, looking every bit as happy as he does now. He's figured it out, he's pretty sure, that they are getting out here, that he's not going to be the one left behind after everyone's realized there's more to life than Hawkins. He'll leave, too, before anyone else, and he won't be lonely; Billy, larger-than-life Billy, in the driver's seat of the car, and everywhere else there is to be too. 

He keeps that in mind while they sprawl under the sun, waiting til they're dry enough to move on, while they eat the last of the shitty ham crackers and slant one last look all around them. It stays with him when they pile up in the Camaro, and as the road stretches endlessly ahead of them, sunlit this time, nature as it is, simple and maybe safe, and it stays with him when the endless road eventually ends, and Billy's pulling up on Steve's garage with a look that's almost regretful.

"How much of what you have now would you wanna keep?" Steve says, not out of nowhere for _him_ , but Billy looks bewildered enough by the question that Steve figures it doesn't make any sense; "Not people," _not me_ , he doesn't say, _I'm keeping you,_. "Like, clothes, shit like that."

Billy's confused frown clears, "Not a lot," he tells him, "Probably fits in less than a box," and Steve's mentally cataloguing his own shit, then, math never his strong suit, but he replies, "Once summer's over, we should do that road trip thing."

"Yeah," Billy says, neutral enough, "Where to?" 

Steve closes his eyes for a second, then tells him, "You know where," and, "Here's the thing though, I don't–I don't wanna come back, once we go." 

"You wanna stay," Billy says, syllable by syllable, slowly, "in California. With me." 

"Max and Dustin, they can–they'll visit us, right," he's saying before he can help himself, "So yes, I want to–"

Billy smiles, then, an easy, uncomplicated thing that stops Steve on his tracks and he trails off, waiting, then Billy taps twice on the steering wheel, shrugs off the tension from the drive. "Alright, princess, we can do that." 

So Steve knows how the story goes – all the way to California, and never back around.

**Author's Note:**

> i've spent the entirety of 2019 meaning to write a steve/billy fic, and i finally have, which means (i guess) that i can rest easy now. 
> 
> this is unbeta'd, so please do point out any glaring typos if you spot them, and the title is a line from lord huron's _ends of the earth_ – it's a gorgeous song, big recommend. 
> 
> thank you for reading, and, as always, comments and kudos are super appreciated. happy 2020, everyone, hopefully it'll be a good one.


End file.
